Serendipity
by some kind of exquisite
Summary: You would be my sweetest downfall, my most worthwhile mistake. Robb/Daenerys/Jon/OC. Mild Squick!
1. To Be King

_The history books forgot about us_  
><em>And the Bible didn't mention us, not even once<em>  
><em>You are my sweetest downfall<em>  
><em>I loved you first, I loved you first<em>

**I: To Be King**

The setting sun bled into the horizon, swallowed by the angry grey clouds blurring the sky. It would grow dark in a few short minutes and while he may have grown adept at manoeuvring in minimal light, Robb couldn't keep track of Bran once the sun had disappeared entirely.

"Bran!" he called to the young boy meandering carelessly into a thicket of trees not far ahead. He turned his head to answer his older brother's call, blue eyes widening innocently.

"Yes, Robb?"

"We need to head back now. I'll bring you back when I can, alright?"

Bran looked crestfallen and Robb averted his eyes, not wanting to see the disappointment filling his younger brother's eyes. Bran would be thirteen in a few short days, anyway – far too old to be treated like a child. With this thought, Robb hardened his gaze.

"I'm sorry, Bran. Come along."

With a heave of frustration, Bran nudged his horse to a turn and followed his older brother at an even-paced trot. The sky was vaguely purplish now and they quickened their speed, lest they arrive at the Castle late and anger the Queen.

* * *

><p>Her hair was silken. Phaedra pulled the gold comb through the white gossamer waves, her eyes darting every so often to the Queen who stared into and almost through the mirror with a passive expression. Daenerys' violet eyes were frozen – not cold, nor unkind, just <em>still<em> – on the regal reflection returning her passivity.

"97, 98, 99…" With a still hand and a graceful turn of her wrist, Phaedra called in the target number. "100 strokes, my lady. Will that be all tonight? Shall I draw a milk bath for her highness? Or perhaps ask the cooks to bring—"

"That will be all." The Queen's voice was thin and low, as though she were murmuring to herself. Phaedra curtsied deeply, reminding herself of all her poor Queen had been through. It was not easy for such a delicate soul to withstand so much terror, so much fear and loss. She had experienced it firsthand and all for the greater good too. Yes. Phaedra was glad she was serving her good Queen and not a selfish, entitled monarch who had not shared her people's sorrow and fought nobly alongside them.

"Thank you, my Queen." A second curtsy saw her gliding out of the sleeping room and hurrying to the maid's chambers. Once she'd reached the close quarters she shared with the Queen's two other personal maids – Irri and Ileana – she folded herself quietly into bed.

"You should wash your face first," Ileana told her. "You'll ruin your skin and then not even the lowliest blacksmith's boy will want you then."

"You have pretty skin, Phaedra," Irri interjected, always there to smooth over Ileana's tactless input.

"Thank you," Phaedra said dryly. Having been raised in the capital by a seamstress and a cook who worked in a nobleman's manor, her voice lacked the inflections plaguing Irri and Ileana with their respective Dothraki and Northerner origins. "I shall do that but not for any _boy_, Ileana. I can't even fathom thinking of marrying at a time like this."

"This is the best time," Ileana countered. "The war is finally over, Phaedra. Or do you not realize this? King Stark and his noble bride are here to watch over us. The seven kingdoms are finally at peace. What more do you wait for?"

"I'm not ready," Phaedra said with a tone of finality. "I'm not interested in _boys_ anyhow. I am to celebrate my nineteenth nameday in a matter of days – I need a _man_. Not that I see any of those knocking down _your_ door, anyhow."

The last line was unnecessary, she realized with a pang of regret. Already, Ileana's eyes were clouding over with anger and an undercurrent of suppressed hurt.

"Well, be thankful you don't bear the scars of the war. I suppose that's some small reprieve."

Turning her badly burned face, Ileana stalked from the room, muttering about washing her tunics.

Phaedra turned guiltily to Irri, knowing the elfin girl didn't hold grudges or address conflict.

"Is the Queen with child yet?" Irri asked in a passive tone and picked up the tableau she was sewing.

"No." Phaedra's voice dropped to a hushed whisper. Really, it was treason to be slandering the Queen like this but Irri had taught Phaedra all she knew about consummation. How to recognize when one is with child, how to avoid falling pregnant – though Phaedra suspected much of it was superstition – and more importantly for an ill-informed peasant girl raised in a conservative home, how it happened. Irri had worked in a pleasure house for a short time during the war when the Lannisters looked to be overpowering. This type of informant came in handy for a girl just navigating the murky waters of sexuality.

It also came in handy for a girl in such close proximity to the Queen, it seemed, for in all the nights Phaedra attended to the Queen, she had seen no sign to suggest the Queen carried the Stark heir.

"The people, they grow impatient," Irri relayed to her enthusiastically. Maids, as a rule, thirsted for gossip. The misfortunes of the privileged were enthralling and addictive. "They want – they _need_ – an heir. When the Targaryen girl is going to give us an heir, they say. Maya tells me the King does not even visit her chambers anymore."

It was true that the only time King Robb and his Queen were seen together was at official events – feasts, diplomatic visits, jousting tournaments – and the odd meeting which involved the Queen, though they rarely did.

"She is traumatized," Phaedra bit back angrily. "You know what she lost in the war. She can hardly be expected to lay with another man so soon and produce an heir on top of that! Cut the poor girl some slack."

Because, really, she was a girl – barely older than Phaedra herself – and to go through what Denaearys Targaryen had at her age was unthinkable.

Irri shrugged non-committedly. "Robb is so handsome, too. It makes no sense, it really doesn't."

Feeling bad for her outburst, Phaedra joked, "Yes, it isn't like she's being asked to lay with a grotesque sewer rat."

"Or Joffrey Lannister," Irri deadpanned.

"Urgh!" Both girls made repulsed faces and collapsed into a fit of giggles at the thought.

* * *

><p>The sky was an even blue-black when Robb and Bran returned, marred only by a smattering of stars.<p>

"Robb?" Bran asked, hurrying to catch up with the larger chestnut brown horse ahead.

"Yes, Bran?" Robb slowed to a trot.

"If the Sun is a King, a God, and the Moon is his Queen…what are the stars?"

Robb raised his thick dark brows, impressed at how quickly the young boy had adopted the New Religion.

"Little princes and princesses," he answered automatically, quoting a story he once overheard one of Deny's maids telling her.

"Oh…" The young boy trailed off, still gazing upward thoughtfully.

"Eyes on the track ahead, young man. We're almost there."

They broke into a gallop now, racing each other to the looming sandstone castle ahead. Robb made sure not to race too fast, lest Bran get ahead of himself in his desire to win. He couldn't stop the grin that split his lips. He was glad for these rare few evenings that weren't dogged by politics, pressure and expectations; catering to his people while still pleasing the noblemen and women who really funded his reign. It was tiresome and it had its effects on him. Despite only having reached his twentieth nameday a month ago, he discovered himself looking older and more haggard as the days wore on. Just the other morning, he discovered a grey hair nestled among his thicket of dark curls.

"Same time tomorrow?" Bran bartered cheekily.

"You know I can't, Bran," Robb said sadly. "I have to work."

"You're always working." Bran pouted. "Leave the work to Deny tomorrow and we can go riding again."

"I can't, Bran," Robb re-iterated. "If I could, you know I would. Anyway, you're a man now. You can't be filling your days with frivolous things like riding and picnics. How's your sword-training coming?"

"Fabulously," Bran intoned dryly. He was hopeless and they both knew it. A cripple wouldn't be able to do much for the King or kingdom so his riding was all he really had. It wasn't an easy situation for anyone. Robb sighed deeply, helping his brother out of the straps in his saddle and carrying him up to his spacious sleeping room. He lay him out on the bed and ruffled his hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"Good night, Bran."

"Night, Robb." The younger boy yawned, turning his head to the side and shutting his eyes.

Robb watched him for a few moments before closing the room door behind him. He checked on Arya then and, ascertaining that she was in fact sleeping and not planning to sneak out as soon as he left, he left for the central tower.

Bypassing the grand King's quarters, he strolled to the end of the corridor with a thudding heart. Daenerys' sleeping room.

"Dany?" He pushed open the heavy double doors so they creaked slightly. Daenerys lay on the bed, eyes open and unblinking as they focused on the ceiling.

She was beautiful. That much he'd confirmed when he first laid eyes upon the great Khal's bought bride. Then, she was an ivory-skinned full-hipped goddess with gossamer hair and great violet eyes that could finish any man with little effort. Then, she was happy. Happy in her role as Khaleesa of her primitive people. Happy in her rough fabrics and the flowers woven through her hair. She was happy and even after he'd given her seven kingdoms, a castle and a throne, even after he'd woven real gold through her hair, he could do nothing to restore that happiness.

"What is it?" She sat up now; her face was passive as she looked back at him, unflinching.

Her delicate features grew harsher as time passed, he noted. Before, her skin had glowed. Now, it dulled to a sickly paleness. Deep lines framed her aging eyes; her eyes which had before been a marvellous, entrancing Targaryen violet. Her lips grew thinner, as well. He recalled the first night he had disrobed her. Her body, though not virginal, was young and petite. It had folded neatly into his side, his hands moulding erotically to her curved hips. Her breasts were small and eager, the rose pink peaks erecting deliciously under his coarse thumb. Through the haze of lust clouding his senses, he had loved her. Every inch of her soft body with every inch of him.

"You will not lay with me tonight?" He posed it as a question but the drought their sex life had experienced in the past few months was a testament unto itself. He didn't want to be like old King Robert, blessed be his name, resorting to drinking and whoring because of a frigid wife. So he tried.

"You and I both know this is a marriage of convenience," Daenerys said quietly.

"Even marriages of convenience require heirs, especially when that marriage happens to be a royal one," Robb spat. Anger heated his vision. He wasn't cruel or unkind. He didn't degrade her, disrespect her, and try as he might, he couldn't give her back what she'd lost. So why did she insist on humiliating him like this?

Her eyes locked onto his and she smiled a bitter, watery smile. Fat tears leaked from the corners of her round eyes and she didn't hurry to wipe them. It was almost as if she'd grown used to crying so frequently, the tears were of little consequence to her now.

"We can try," she said finally, reluctantly.

He hadn't expected his response. He shifted awkwardly in his heavy leather boots. He wasn't about to take a crying girl, no matter how necessary it was. Ignoring the deep growl unfurling in his stomach, he said, "Another night. I shall pay you a visit…another night."

It was all so clinical, so formal. Daenerys nodded curtly, promptly curling into bed on her side. She rested her head on folded arms and hid her face from view.

Giving a half-sigh, half-grunt of frustration, Robb closed the door with a sharp click and heavy footfalls carried him to his own chambers.\

* * *

><p><strong>AN: There was more to this chapter but I wanted to pace the story more evenly. I apologise if it seems a bit too tell and not enough show, but I was trying to smoothly introduce the context of the story. If there's anything I can improve upon, feel free to leave me a (polite) review. :) Actually, just leave me a review, period. I'd really like to hear what you think!**

**Also, I haven't read the books (I'm working to correct this ASAP) so nothing spoiler-y please. This is based largely off what I know from the show (which is rocking my world atm). **


	2. Absence of an Heir

Warnings for this chapter: sex scene_ [flashback]_; semi-implied masturbation;

**II: Absence of an Heir**

Phaedra was called to the Queen's chambers at the unusually early hour of dawn the next day. Bleary-eyed and with matted hair, she hurried quickly to the Queen's sleeping quarters and knocked in quick succession against the polished wood of the double doors.

"Come in." The Queen's voice was thin and low again, as though this were an afterthought.

"My Lady." Phaedra curtsied lowly, allowing the dark frizz of her hair to fall forward like a curtain. In deep contrast to her own greasy, miserable appearance, the Queen shone in a pale lilac silk night gown with her hair draped like a precious curtain against the rich material. Phaedra swallowed the pang of envy that pierced her.

"I rise early today. You may take my sheets and bed clothes."

Nodding curtly, Phaedra hurried to scoop up the discarded sleeping clothes and sheets. She frowned curiously. It was the twentieth of the month. That meant—

"My Lady has not bled," she stated bluntly. The fair Queen tensed visibly.

"But this is good!" Phaedra hurried to say. "Perhaps her Highness is with child. I could check—"

Her efforts earned her a sharp slap which snapped her head clean to the side of her neck. It smarted, causing tears to well in her eyes. Daenerys gasped horribly.

"I—I am so sorry. I apologise, Phaedra, I—"

"No," Phaedra bit through the sting. "I spoke out of turn. The burden of apology is on me, my Qu-Queen. I'll… I shall go now."

Gathering the sheets and unsoiled bed clothes, she departed swiftly from the room. She had no real right to feel hurt, she told herself. She had been completely out of line just then. Whether the Queen bled or not was not a maid's business. She repeated this to herself as she went about her daily chores that morning.

* * *

><p>Dawn broke with a hue of red on the horizon to the rhythm of feeble chirping by birds that had migrated north for the Long Summer and were only now stirring. The castle barely stirred. The only ones awake at this hour were those who ran the castle, who ran the kingdom. The Queen and her entourage of maids probably lay asleep, likely until the warmth of noon. Robb dressed quickly and splashed cold water on his face, slapping his cheeks a few times to really wake himself up.<p>

Unsurprisingly, Arya was already awake and louds shouts of "Ha!" and "Eurgh!" from the courtyard let him know she was practicing her sword fighting. Stifling a laugh, Robb kept walking until his Advisor stepped in front of him, looking grave as he did.

"Leon, what—"

"My Lord." The old man bent at the torso slightly, out of respect. "The Council awaits you. I should warn you, your Highness, they wish to discuss a rather _delicate_ matter."

Robb cocked a brow questioningly at the frail man. "This is unexpected, Leon. Whatever they wish to discuss must be important if it is sprung on me so suddenly."

Leon bowed, not knowing what else to add. Robb walked briskly to the Council meeting room, purpose colouring his stride. He gave the heavy double doors a great heave and strode in.

"Gentlemen." The men in the room averted their eyes and Robb ignored the dread sinking in his stomach. "All of you, speechless? Well, this _must_be serious."

His attempt at casual banter fell on deaf ears because he was met with dry coughing. Robb looked to his brother in all but name, Jon Snow, and raised his brows questioningly. He looked like _really_ did not want to be there. It had taken a great deal of coercion to make Jon accept his Council position until Robb had ultimately convinced him it was important for the Nightwatch to be represented on the Council. In a few short seconds, the heavy-set man sitting in the centre of the crescent moon-shaped table leaned forward.

"We are here, my Lord, to discuss a regrettable situation… That is to say, the absence of an heir to the throne. While his Highness is young and, Gods willing, fertile, it is important to address this as soon as possible."

Robb's jaw tensed and his eyes scanned the Council once more. A 'delicate matter' was putting it lightly, he thought. This wasn't any of the Council's business. He served the seven kingdoms well as a King; he possessed both kindness and strength in equal measure, he upheld the kingly virtues of honour and nobility, and he had proven his military genius beyond a shadow of doubt. It was not the Council's place to challenge him on this.

"I can't imagine what you—"

"It is imperative," an elderly man spoke up the far-right of the table. "—that the throne is secured. A line of succession is a must for any stable monarchy, your Honour."

"I know that," Robb said through gritted teeth. His voice sounded hard, even to him. "This is not the business of the Council. Daenerys and I—"

"They say you do not even lay with the Queen anymore," Jon interjected. More coughing and uncomfortable squirming followed as Robb focused his heated glare on his brother. Only Jon would get away with such a blatantly disrespectful remark, being that the two shared blood and the closeness their upbringing afforded them.

"Again, this is not your business!" Robb shouted. The room stilled and the tension in the air was thick enough to slice through with a broad sword.

"No," Jon continued, narrowing his eyes. He was voicing what the other Council members would not say– _could not _say, for they were bound by hierarchy and respect. "It is the business of the seven kingdoms and all who call them home. You may have defeated the Lannisters, but you cannot be so naïve as to think there aren't those who don't wish to see your severed head on a pike. For as long as the Iron Throne exists, there also exist those who wish to contest it. If you really were a good King, one who cared to preserve the peace in his land, you would heed this warning. _You must provide an heir._"

Though he could see the sense in Jon's words, Robb's blood boiled. It wasn't just anger clouding his better judgement, it was embarrassment. He was a proud man and this whole situation was thoroughly humiliating. He wasn't naïve, despite Jon's claims. He had agonised over the lack of an heir for countless nights now. It hadn't been a serious problem at first, but after the first miscarriage… A dull pain began pulsing in Robb's temples and as he rubbed it absently, he was vaguely aware of the Council members' eyes on him.

After the first miscarriage, Daenerys had grown distant. She flinched at his touch, hovered a few inches apart whenever they walked together or sat by each other. His hand around her un-swollen stomach would cause her to tense. He grew distant too. That one night when the deep arch of her back and clenching of her muscles signalled to him that she was close. With fistfuls of his hair clenched in her small fists and her pillowy lips parted in ecstasy, she had murmured one word: "Drogo."

He shook his head like a wet direwolf as if to scatter the memories, and his eyes snapped up to the Council.

"What do you suggest?" His voice was cold and aloof. It had taken a great concession of his pride to ask this. Jon gave him a small nod of approval.

"Well, some solutions are preferable to others, of course," the elderly man said. "There is an old belief that a woman must be, er, properly _satisfied_ to inspire pregnancy."

"A woman's pleasure pleases the Goddess," the priest, newly instated to represent the New Religion, intoned in a lofty voice. "A Queen's pleasure is worth a thousand women."

Robb's lips twitched at the exaggerated eye roll Jon gave in response to this comment.

"Well, that's all well and good but the Queen does not wish to _try_ at all. She pines for her lost love." Robb's expression was smug at this. He had tried everything under the sun; there was nothing the Council could suggest which hadn't at least crossed his mind.

"Drogo fought valiantly in the war," another man, a Knight, said matter-of-factly.

"And he will be rewarded by—" the Priest began again but Jon leaned forward suddenly with a deep clearing of his throat.

"Have you asked one of her maids to help her, perhaps?" he asked. "If she could only learn that sex can be enjoyable again, you could keep trying. Many of the maids have been rescued from pleasure houses—"

"You would have a whore teach the Queen to consummate?" the elderly man screeched in his failing voice. "Never in all my years—"

Jon's expression darkened. "I'll have you remember, Sir, that many of these girls were taken against their will. That hardly degrades them to whores."

Some of the Knights snickered, shooting condescending looks at Jon while murmuring lowly.

"We wouldn't want them to relive such a horrific experience," Robb said diplomatically.

He shot a questioning look at one of the Knights who was laughing heartily. Relative silence descended fairly quickly. Looking somewhat mollified, Jon sat back and let his dark locks hide much of his face. Robb sighed. You couldn't please everyone.

"Well, what about a maid?" one of the Knights asked with a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Why couldn't you fuck one of the maids and pass the child off as the Queen's? It's not like she leaves her chambers anymore. I doubt anyone would notice."

Disgust flooded through Robb and something similar must have happened with his brother, for Jon leapt up a second later.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he bellowed, eyes darkening rapidly. "That is—that's despicable! Have you absolutely no respect for your Queen? Have you no respect for your King that you would suggest he disrespect his wife like that?"

"Sit yourself down, pansy," the same Knight spat. Dark humour danced in his black eyes. "We've already confirmed this situation is pretty desperate. Not that you would know, Snow. Have you ever even been with a girl before? I don't know whose decision it was to let a child onto the Council."

"Mine," Robb said in an icy, flat tone before Jon could rage more. "It was my decision and I would thank you not to be so callous and disrespectful of your Queen. They've executed people on charges of treason for much less."

The Knight's lips thinned as he bowed his head. "Apologies, my Lord."

Jon still looked furious as he sat down carefully. His fists were clenched, turning a faint red at the knuckles and complementing the blood colouring his face.

"If nobody has any more brilliant suggestions to add, I'll be calling this meeting to a close."

Robb was met with no objections so with that, he turned and swept from the room, his thick fur cape dusting the floor behind him. He had reached an arch leading outside into a green expanse of garden when a pair of heavy leather boots fell into step with him.

"Jon," Robb acknowledged without turning.

"I told them this meeting was a bad idea."

"You had a good point though," Robb conceded. They reached an old, gnarled oak tree when he stopped and turned to look at his brother through the glare of sunlight. "I can't keep running from this problem forever."

"You can't take another bride," Jon said with an indecipherable look on his face. "Daenerys as your Queen is a show of good faith to the Dothraki."

"I know that," Robb said with more anger in his voice than he had intended. "But we need an heir and therein lies the problem, doesn't it?"

Both men paused, not knowing what to say.

"I visited Daenerys last night, you know," Robb said quietly, vulnerability creeping into his voice. "We talked about it for a little while. I said I'd visit her another night. She— She was crying."

Jon cleared his throat uncomfortably. In the distance, two maids laughing and screeching interrupted the silence.

Robb sighed. "I'm sorry. You don't need to be hearing this."

"No, it's fine," Jon said quickly. "I mean, who else could you tell?"

Robb smiled. "You keep me sane, you know."

"Jon Snow keeps you sane?" Jon laughed. "That's not a good sign, is it?"

Both brothers chuckled before another round of laughter from the maids sobered them.

"I do believe someone's having a better time than we are," Jon observed with a quiet smile.

Robb grinned before realization hit him with a sharp sinking feeling. "Seven hells, Jon. I have to meet with some noblemen from Essos soon. It was good talking to you, brother."

"And you…brother," Jon said with a nod and a small laugh as Robb ran away in a hurry.

With nothing else to do, Jon approached the two maids and clapped his hands together.

"Ladies!"

They jumped as though they'd just seen a live dragon and both dissolved into apologies.

"Apologies, my Lord. Were we being loud?" one fawned, bending at the hip.

"We'll be quieter in the future, sir. We were just going back in. We're finished outside for the day."

"Then you can keep me company?" Jon asked. "I'm terribly bored. There is surprisingly little to do when you don't leave for duty for several days."

"Are you a soldier, sir?" one of the girls asked curiously, cocking her head to the side.

Jon didn't flinch at the severe burns marring the left side of her face. The war had left many disfigured, dismembered and traumatized; those who came out with their lives, that is. He had seen all the atrocities first-hand from his place by the King's side.

"I was," he began. "During the war, that is. I command the Nightwatch now."

"What an honour, sir!" gasped the smaller girl.

She was pretty, he reflected absently. Not beautiful, but attractive enough not to completely disappear from a man's notice. Someone had restrained her thick dark ropes of hair and fashioned them into two long braids. Her whiskey-coloured eyes widened at him now, evidently impressed.

"Please, call me Jon. I'm not here for an arse-kissing, regardless. You two sounded like you were having a good time and I could certainly use that right now."

"Ileana, daughter of Isaac. It's an honour to meet you, sir."

"Phaedra," the smaller girl said with a smile. "Erm… My father's name is Gawain. He's a cook in—"

A sharp look from her older companion quieted her. "Never mind."

Jon laughed. "Which part of the castle do you ladies work in?"

"Not ladies, sir. Maids."

Jon's good humour faltered. "A lady is a lady, it matters not her breeding. Do you two work for the Queen, then?"

"Her personal maids, sir," Phaedra said. "I see to the Queen every morning when she wakes and every evening before she sleeps. Ileana's job is—"

It was entrancing to watch her talk, if only for the motion of her lips. They were a deep red, like dried blood. Her upper lip was V-shaped and characterized by a deep Cupid's bow. Her lower lip was much fuller and had a tendency to press her upper lip outward as she spoke. They rarely closed for, when she stopped talking, they remained parted and revealed rows of small square teeth. Her countenance was childlike and thoroughly innocent, inspiring in Jon an urge to adopt her as his younger sister. In retrospect, it was an odd yet comical first impression.

"So, if you've taken the black, why are you here in King's Landing?" Ileana enquired.

Beneath the scarring and brazen countenance, Jon theorized the maid was rather beautiful. Her features were not as distinctive as her companion's but they were refined and in the right place, marred only by the unfortunate scarring. Her eyes were her greatest asset – large, round and coloured a deep green bleeding into blue. Her nose was thin and straight, much like her lips, countering Phaedra's rounded full features. He noticed her hair was parted so it fell heavily across the scarred half of her face.

"I'm on the Council," he admitted, awaiting the inevitable gasps and fawning.

"You really should not be seen with us," Phaedra said uneasily. "A Lord, such as yourself—"

"So you won't entertain me? Is that what you're saying?" Jon crossed his arms, giving a lopsided smile.

"We're very busy, my Lord," Ileana said suddenly, grabbing Phaedra by the arm and pulling her away. "There are many in the Castle of suitable rank who will happily service you, sir. There is a place many men, er, such as yourself enjoy visiting. It is not far from here, my Lord."

She meant a pleasure house, Jon realised with a vaguely ill feeling in his stomach. For the umpteenth time, he regretted accepting his place on the Council. But someone had to represent the Nightwatch's interests in the capital and it got lonely up there with no human contact. A man needed that from time to time.

Disappointment was heavy in his heart as he watched the two maids tear away with several glances back at him and much discreet giggling.

He sunk against a broad tree, hidden from the morning sunlight and from view of anyone in the Castle or the garden. He thought of her, his violet-eyed love, and his heart sped faster, beads of perspiration forming along his hairline. Reaching into his grey trousers through the part in his maroon tunic, his quickly hardening member throbbed to the beat of his heart as he clasped it firmly. He remembered her wide eyed gaze, her silken hair and the night they'd spent together before the war was won. His breath quickened, chest heaving as he pumped furiously. It was the night when her would-be husband and the people she ruled had fought in the final siege, beheading Jaime Lannister and his incestuous Queen.

"_Drogo is dead." _

_His voice sounded alien to him, distant as though it were someone else delivering the horrific news. From the sparkling tears clinging onto her spiky white lashes and the wet tracks lining her face, he deduced that she did in fact know. She was seated on the river bank, barefoot and clad in a thin silk dress that brushed her ankles. Her lip trembled as she stared out along the expanse of murky blue-green water, the moonlight casting shadows against her cheek, lowlighting her white hair._

"_I—I don't know what's going to happen," he confessed. "He was our best warrior and if he's fallen then—I don't know what will happen to Robb."_

_Daenerys bit her lip hard, drawing a tiny tear-shaped drop of crimson blood. Jon's arm shot out to wipe the drop with more gentleness than he'd known himself to possess. He made to draw his arm back when Daenerys ' much smaller hand clasped it. He was sure she was exerting all her strength but he barely felt the small white hand clutching his broad muscular forearm. Her petal-soft thumb rubbed small circles into the faintly scarred skin speckled with black hairs._

"_What—" he began before she pursed her lips and shushed him._

"_I don't know what I'll do either," she admitted. "They say if we win, I'll be made Queen – Robb's wife. I—I don't know if I can do that, Jon. I can't."_

"_I'm sure Robb wouldn't force you into a marriage you don't want," Jon reassured her._

_Daenerys made a strangled noise. "We both know that's not how things work. The Dothraki want compensation for their Khal's death. Their Khaleesa must be Khaleesa of the world they fought to liberate. It's politics, Jon."_

_Jon sighed. The thought of his brother's survival, of the horrific war ending filled him with premature relief. It wouldn't erase the battle scars, the traumatizing memories, and the hollowness of peacetime would empty them all, but a clean victory was the best outcome now._

"_This might be my last night as a free woman," Daenerys said sadly, a bitter smile twisting her exquisite face. _

_Jon tilted her chin up. "You will be fine. We will all be fine." He ducked his head to press his lips to hers, savouring the salt of her tears and drinking in the sweetness of her scent._

_Her hands gripped his neck, pulling him closer to her in a desperate hurry. Little whimpering noises escaped her, like a wounded animal pleading to be healed._

_Jon discarded her flimsy cloth quickly and she hurried to undo his fur cape, his tunic, his trousers..._

"_You Northerners wear far too much clothing," she gasped absently. Jon laughed, pausing for the first time during their interlude. _

_He discarded the tunic and revealed a bare chiselled chest underneath. Daenerys ' eyes fluttered closed as he pushed her smaller body down onto the damp bank. He lowered himself onto her body, his warm tongue licking the chilled peaks of her nipples. Her back arched underneath him and the soft folds of her stomach melted back into a flat expanse._

_Hurriedly removing his trousers, Daenerys hooked a leg around the back of his knees and rolled him to the hard wet floor. His shock and the impact of the ridged surface underneath him momentarily knocked him breathless. Daenerys appeared not to have noticed because she had lowered herself precariously onto his erect cock, biting her lip hard again._

"_Yes, like that…" she gasped lowly, gyrating her hips into him while he grasped her rounded hips. "Oh, yes. Ungh…"_

_Jon felt her tense around him and he rolled her backward without breaking contact, thrusting more furiously into her. His breath quickened and their non-sensical exclamations of pleasure blurred into each other, like a breathy language of ecstasy._

"_Uh, Dro—Gu-uh!"_

_A breathy gasp saw her finish around him and a minute later, he spilled onto the patchy grass at her insistence._

_They washed in the cold river, hands and tongues bringing each other to forget the horrors of the war, the uncertainty of tomorrow, of either of their futures. Wrapping his large fur cape around the both of them, their shivering naked bodies slept under the promise-filled waxing moon.._

Jon absently wiped a sticky hand against the rough bark of the tree he leaned against, smiling bitterly at their situation. The war was over largely thanks to his brother yet he begrudged him his wife. Daenerys didn't love Robb. She didn't love Jon either, and neither man could give her back the one she longed for.

* * *

><p>"Sir Jon is handsome, isn't he?" Ileana remarked as the two girls washed the second batch of the Queen's finery in the basins.<p>

"I suppose," Phaedra said, shrugging gently. "He looks a lot like his brother, doesn't he? The eyes and the hair—"

"Who is his brother?" Ileana interrupted sharply. "He said he's from the Nightwatch, how can you possibly know who he's related to?"

Phaedra cocked a dark brow. "Isn't it obvious? That's the King's bastard brother, Jon Snow. How did you not realise? He's on the Council, he fought beside his brother during the war and he was originally on the Nightwatch. Haven't you read the history books?"

"We weren't all raised in a noble household," Ileana reminded her curtly. "Not all of us were afforded the luxury of learning to read and write."

Phaedra pouted guiltily. "Well, he was perfectly lovely. I don't know why you dragged us away so quickly. This washing doesn't have to be done until Gods know when! The Queen barely leaves her room nowadays. The next time she dons her finery will probably be the Rose Ball and that's not for several weeks."

"He shouldn't have been talking to maids, anyhow," Ileana said shortly. "He was probably mocking us. It's what they all do – the Lords, and those we call 'sir' with ridiculous simpers. What was all that tosh about 'a lady is a lady, regardless of her breeding'? It's easy to say that when everyone and their mother sees you as noble, as superior. They probably have a game – see how many maids they can fuck before settling down with a nice respectable lass."

"Oh, don't be so cynical," Phaedra complained. "Honestly, he was just being nice. Anyway, you admitted you find him handsome. What was the harm in talking to him?"

"I won't compromise my dignity like that," Ileana sniffed.

"Dignity? You're a maid," Phaedra snarked nastily. She hadn't meant to sound so venomous but Ileana's sour attitudes always managed to put a damper on the loveliest days.

Ileana dropped the yellow lace she was washing so suddenly, the soapy water splashed onto their knees and thighs.

"And so are you," she hissed through gritted teeth. "Just a maid and don't you forget it. I see the way you look at the King in court. Girls like us were meant to polish their boots and no more, do you understand me?"

Phaedra had meant to say, 'Lots of girls - maid and nobility alike - admire the King. He's handsome, kind and powerful. Just the husband so many girls dream of. You can hardly torture me for that.'

But there was a tone of finality in Ileana's voice that killed the words on her tongue. Both girls went back to the washing, working in relative silence until they were given leave.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Ahh, nobody told me I was spelling Daenerys' name wrong? :O Okay, so this chapter is longer than the first. :) Thank you to everyone who reviewed! I have lifted the rating to M because there will be more graphic violence/sex but I'll try to use it sparingly (meaning only when necessary and not gratuitously). I'll always have warnings at the beginning of the chapter, though. **

**Don't forget to leave a review! xo.**


End file.
